


Five Things Harry Potter Should Never Have Done To Draco Malfoy

by Thysanotus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Slytherin, The Quidditch Pitch: Slytherin Common Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-22
Updated: 2005-12-22
Packaged: 2018-10-27 07:35:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10804728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thysanotus/pseuds/Thysanotus
Summary: Just five things...





	Five Things Harry Potter Should Never Have Done To Draco Malfoy

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: I wrote this for [](http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=xylodemon)[**xylodemon**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/xylodemon/), thanks to her mention of titles of fics she'd like to see. I've been thinking about colours and synesthesia a lot too, recently. Let me know your thoughts, good, bad or ugly. ♥  


* * *

**5\. Shaken his hand**  
  
Harry prefers yellow-gold, the patina of worn wedding rings, gold of a Gryffindor celebration, the sun on a hot day with the red of… Hermione is finally getting married, in the old church where she had been christened. Harry’s gaze slips back to her at the altar, radiant in the shafts of light spiking through the nave. He sighs, eyes roaming the crowd half-expecting that familiar flash of red, angry with himself when he remembers. The shock of white-gold is almost too much. White gold and green, defying the almost overwhelming black, peppered here and there with subdued dark reds (Katie) and blues (Angelica). Ginny is next to Hermione, brilliant in deep yellow-gold. The white-gold in the middle of the crowd is compelling, and Harry finds his eyes returning to it again and again through the ceremony.  
  
Afterwards, mingling with half-distanced friends in the forecourt, Harry registers the splash of white-gold, moving towards it before he is consciously aware of doing so. His next impression is pure silver. Pure silver and ice are the eyes regarding him from under white-gold.  
  
“Malfoy.”  
  
“Potter.”  
  
A hand is extended. He thinks Malfoy conferred the honour on him. Harry hesitates, momentarily, but then takes the proffered hand, and shakes. The handshake lingers longer than would have been thought between the two, and in the distance, Hermione watches from the church steps.  
  
The dominating colours are white-gold and black.  
  
 **4\. Apologised to him**  
  
Draco prefers silver, the icy coolness, silver of the Antarctic, metal of the moon. Silver sets off his pale beauty, silver and green, channelling his dreams and emotions. Harry cannot resist him when he is dressed in silver and green.  
  
At least, he never used to be able to. Draco paces the length of his room. Harry hasn’t owled him or seen him for three days. Not since they’d fought, and he’d called Harry a mudblood. He’d never seen Harry so angry. He went quiet, deadly quiet, and his green eyes narrowed. They looked at Draco, fixing him in place, seeming to rake through to his soul. Draco trembled, not and yet half wanting Harry to know his crimes, the colour of his soul.  
  
Before he could say anything, stuttering through an unfamiliar, awkward apology, Harry had left the room, apparated somewhere, and no word since then. Draco kicks his dresser in sudden anger. He hadn’t meant it, after all. And it was Potter’s fault for provoking him in the first place. He knows, somewhere, that his days will be grey, and his mood black, and that’s Potter’s fault too.  
  
A soft tapping against the window distracts him from his darkened thoughts. Sliding it wide, Harry slips into the room.  
  
“Harry, I’m – “  
  
Harry interrupts him. “Draco, I know. I’m sorry. We both know.” He takes the smaller man in his arms, holding him. They stand together in the gloom.  
  
The dominating colours are green and silver.  
  
 **3\. Kissed him**  
  
Harry likes turquoise. The colour is soothing and relaxing, the colour he painted his own room as soon as he left the Dursley’s for ever. It was the colour of the sky, that July day, the colour of freedom, of knowledge.  
  
Harry can sense it. Draco is not happy to be here. His foot is tapping the floor, increasing as his temper shortens. Harry knows there will be an outburst at any minute, and frantically tries to think of a way to stall it. The crowded tube is not the ideal place for a tirade from his spoilt – and he thinks the word fondly – boyfriend. He is wrapped in a camel coloured coat, the turquoise shirt Harry loves underneath. They are pressed against others, Harry pressed into the armpit of the man behind him.  
  
Draco’s rising irritation is a catalyst for what happens next, Harry tells himself afterwards. As Draco opens his mouth to begin, Harry lurches forwards, awkwardly placing his mouth over the other boy’s. Draco’s lips are gentle against his own, but his tongue is fierce. He nips at Harry’s lip, and Harry tastes turquoise.  
  
 **2\. Slept with him**  
  
Draco loves purple. The lushness of the colour, connotations of royalty, nobility of spirit and intuition. His sheets are purple, that morning he wakes late. The bed seems uncomfortably small, and he realises why, as he finds himself coiled in Harry’s arms. Harry stirs, and Draco brushes away errant wisps of hair from his face. The other man’s face is still in repose, and Draco feels a sudden chill clench around his heart. Is this how he will look when dead? The luminescent green eyes closed, muscles slack? Will he always be as perfect as he is now, or will splashes of crimson mar his figure?  
  
Draco makes the sign to ward off the evil eye as Harry stirs. He knows what it will be like when the other man wakes. They will avoid each other’s eyes, awkward and yet comfortable. The silences will be frequent, but familiar. Harry will smooth the purple sheets and take him again, and he will clench the purple Egyptian cotton and moan into Harry’s mouth as he comes.  
  
 **1\. Loved him**  
  
Harry wipes the blood from his hands as he walks from the grave. The crimson shock, the coppery taste. He used to like red. Red was the comfort of the Weasleys, passion, freckles and comfort in front of the fire, glowing red. It was sparks behind his eyelids, crying Ron’s name as he came, roses Neville patiently cultivated, chilli shared with Dean and Seamus. Hermione, fingers tapping on the red bound Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3.  
  
Nothing is ever going to be alright again. Red will haunt him, the colour mocking as he scrubs arms to the elbow, the flush rising on his skin to replace the scarlet flushed away, spiralling down the drain, wisps staining the liquid.  
  
Red is not as cheery as he first thought. Why can’t blood be green, or blue, Harry wonders. A more sedate, solemn colour than red. Love is red, too.


End file.
